Casualties of War
by fyre
Summary: Who does Blair know in San Diego? Will Jim ever find the mop? And does AT&T or MCI have the best state to state call rates? AU


CASUALTIES OF WAR  
by fyresong  
  
COMPLETED 11/11/00  
  
FEEDBACK: a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com  
  
TEASER/STORY DESCRIPTION: Who does Blair know in San Diego? Will Jim ever find the  
mop? And does AT&T or MCI have the best state to state call rates?  
  
ARCHIVE: Cascade Library, Guide Posts. Everyone else please ask.  
  
TIME LINE/CATEGORY: Post Sentinel Too part 2. Alternate Universe, or more accurately,  
veering from cannon. Part 1 of a longer series?  
  
RATING: PGish? I have swear words in this. Be warned! No violence. Not yet anyway. tee  
hee!  
  
DISCLAIMER: No major plot-lines, characters, setting, or major events alluded to in this story  
are mine in any way. Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount own these guys. Some of the dialogue is  
pulled straight from the TV show for the sake of continuity, and is thus logically NOT mine. No  
money is being made off this story. Please ask author before reproducing or posing anywhere else.   
  
NOTES: The first two episodes of The Sentinel I ever saw were Sentinel Too parts 1 and 2. It  
seems only fitting that the story I first post in this fandom is my attempt to explain the events  
following the episodes so that my favorite characters have proper resolution and act like decent  
human beings. (unlike TPTB have cast them). I'm combining Murder 101 with the events post  
Sentinel Too Part 2. They both happen pretty much at the same time in my story. If I got  
anything wrong plot-wise, I apologize. I have only seen a handful of episodes and read a ton of  
fan fiction.   
  
** for emphasis  
( ) for memory  
  
just in case italics don't come through!  
  
***  
  
Lindenburg Air Field, San Diego, California, a busy airport, a stop-off between north and south,  
the place where James Ellison and Blair Sandburg were to part ways.  
  
*But only for a little while,* Blair reminded himself firmly. *Just so we can figure this whole  
mess out.*  
  
He hadn't actually mentioned his plans to the detective yet. He'd made a couple of phone calls  
while in Mexico, arranging the little seaside house to be free, calling in some old, old markers.  
  
The easy part done, now came the hard part. Leaving.  
  
It shouldn't be so hard. *I mean, it is not like I have something to go back to,* he thought  
ruefully remembering the conversation he and Chancellor Edwards had had over the phone when  
he'd checked in at Rainier the day before.  
  
*I don't even get a reprieve for being dead, not that anyone wants to talk about THAT.*   
  
Turning away from the windows, Sandburg returned to his waiting seat, shrugging on his jacket  
and grabbing hold of his backpack by one strap. Simon didn't even bother to look up from where  
he sat slouched reading a magazine, cigar clenched between his teeth, unlit. Megan was curled up  
impossibly tight in her chair, trying to catch some sleep. And Jim . . . Jim was over by the phone  
booths calling someone; Blair hadn't bothered to ask who.  
  
Taking them in one more time visually, saying good-bye inside his heart he turned and walked  
away.  
  
***  
  
"Near death experiences, attempted murder, these are stressful events. He'll need someone to talk  
to. From your description he's handling this too well. You know yourself, Jim, what the  
consequences are when you bottle trauma like this up. I don't know. There's not much I can do  
from here," the voice over the phone apologized.  
  
"I realize that Mark, but this is important. I wouldn't call you if it wasn't," Jim insisted, rubbing  
his eyes tiredly. "You're the only one I trust with this kind of shit, you know?"  
  
"I know. Just watch him. If things look like they're coming to a breaking point I'm on the next  
plane to Cascade," Mark offered. "To help BOTH of you. Out of the service or not Ellison, you  
call I'm there. After taking care of my little brother in Peru . . ." Mark swallowed hard. "Giving  
him a burial . . ." The voice shifted back to the no nonsense tone. "I know you're not telling me  
something Ellison," a wry tone filled the words. "But I understand the need for secrets. Hell, it's  
my whole line of work in the military and in psychology."  
  
Relieved he'd gotten something-- Mark's word was good in his book --Jim smiled. "That'll be  
enough. I'll give you a call if it becomes necessary." *And God willing it won't.* He turned to  
look back at the waiting area where he'd left his three friend's sitting. His smile faded as he  
realized Sandburg was not there. Stepping out of the booth he looked around anxiously,  
searching, searching . . .  
  
"Mark, I gotta go," Jim said tightly.  
  
"Okay Jim. Take care and try to call once in a while when you're life is NOT falling apart around  
your ears. Bye."  
  
Not even bothering to offer his own farewells, Ellison hung up the phone with a clunk and strode  
purposefully after his vanishing partner.  
  
Jim couldn't help himself. He reached out and grabbed Blair by the arm, remembering at the last  
second to gentle his rough hold; Sandburg had been through enough lately.   
  
*That's putting it mildly,* a snide voice whispered inside him. *Shut-up,* he told it fiercely,  
focusing again on the shorter man, unfortunately directing his discomfort there too.   
  
"Where are you going?" he demanded sharply.  
  
Sandburg looked at him as if he'd suddenly grown another head. "To find a cab," he said slowly  
as if that fact was incredibly obvious even to a two year old. *But obviously not to Jim.*   
  
Blair sighed and turned to face the detective. "Look, Jim, I need to get my head together," he  
explained awkwardly, running a free hand through his lifeless hair. "Give me about a week,  
maybe two, and I'll be back in Cascade. I'm staying at a friend's place," he added quickly when it  
looked like Jim might protest this unexpected change of plans as foolish. "Here's the number," he  
found himself adding, scribbling it onto an old receipt he dug out of his pockets. The student  
hesitated before handing it over, for an instant cursing his stupidity in giving Jim a way to find  
him. *But he won't come find me,* he reminded himself fiercely. *He doesn't need me  
anymore.*   
  
He swallowed hard as Jim slowly took the paper from his outstretched hand, staring at him  
silently, an unreadable look on his face. The Sentinel didn't say a word.   
  
"Call me when you get the phone set up in the loft, okay? If you want to," Blair added hastily,  
trying to fill the silence "I'll be back in Cascade in a couple of days." *Now was that to reassure  
him or you Blair?* he asked himself as he shouldered his backpack. *And who the hell do you  
think you're kidding?*  
  
"Sandy?" Megan called, hurrying up to join the two men, puzzlement and worry etched on her  
brow.  
  
Sandburg offered her a quick one armed hug "Bye Megan. Thanks." He looked over her  
towards the Captain of Major Crimes who'd followed the Inspector, nodding once in his direction.  
"You too, Simon."   
  
Blair then looked back towards the man who used to be his Sentinel, his partner, his roommate,  
his best friend. "Jim."  
  
The intercom crackled and coughed. "Now boarding, flight 1821, United Airlines, San Diego to  
Cascade. Will first class passengers please approach the gate."  
  
Blair held the detective's gaze a moment longer and then turned and walked away, not once  
looking back.  
  
James Ellison watched the retreating figure tread his way through the crowds of travelers, not  
losing sight of the slight figure even as he moved away through the glass tunnels and walkways of  
the airport. He watched, jaw clenched, as Sandburg exited out into the loading zone, and hailed a  
cab. He strained to hear the address, but the roar of engines blocked the sound, blocked the  
words and the heartbeat. Blair ducked inside the backseat and Ellison watched helpless as his  
Guide drove away.  
  
"Jim?" There was a hand, an unfamiliar touch on his arm. He had to fight to keep from lashing  
out at this alien, *wrong* presence that dared to try and offer comfort when only HIS Guide had  
the right to-- He squashed the impulse and blinked to find the dark face of Simon Banks blocking  
his vision. "Jim? Are you just going to let him go?"  
  
Inexplicably angered by the question, Jim turned away and headed back towards their waiting  
seats, all four of them, one no longer needed. "He's coming back. He said he's coming back," he  
found himself saying, wondering who he was trying to convince, Simon or himself. "And what do  
I look like? His nursemaid?" he snapped. "He's a grown man; he can take care of himself."  
  
"It's not him I'm worried about," Simon growled under his breath, gathering his coat.  
  
"Will rows 35 through 25 please approach the gate and begin . . ."  
  
***  
  
Barren. Empty. Cold.  
  
And that didn't even begin to describe the loft. Jim closed the door behind him, staring in  
bewilderment at the cavernous living room, the dust swirling around in the air, stains on the floor  
easy to pick out. His senses seemed even more sharp. "Normal" for him had been moved up a  
few notches since the pools, and Alex, and the visions. He already had a pretty good control over  
the changes. Blair had hovered over him offering advice, ideas, and techniques tirelessly, his  
voice going hoarse, his lungs straining. Jim had finally sat down and listened attentively to the  
tests and exercises when he became aware that Blair would not stop talking until he complied, and  
was only hurting himself and his recovery every time he opened his mouth.  
  
It was another thing he owed the young man. The whole trip back Jim doubted Blair so much as  
dozed, trying instead to help his Sentinel, the whole trip back until San Diego.  
  
When he had left.  
  
*Dammit! Who does Sandburg know in San Diego?* Jim opened the balcony doors and windows  
to air the place, and then headed upstairs and quickly unpacked his few belongs.   
  
  
*Who did Sandburg know in general?* He headed downstair, pondering this important and brand  
new question. When Blair had been in the hospital Jim had wracked his brains while he paced in  
the waiting room, thinking about who he should call to let them know Blair was injured but okay,  
really, really okay. Naomi? He hadn't a clue what part of the globe she was currently wandering.   
Friends? Jim had to admit he didn't know who outside the bullpen Blair considered his friends.   
Was Blair seeing anyone right now? He couldn't remember. Was there some professor he had to  
call to take over Sandburg's many responsibilities at Rainier? Blair usually took care of that the  
moment he could find a phone when he was sick or injured. Did he have a group of anthropology  
grads he hung out with? A bunch of people to party with and go out to movies and do other  
college stuff with? Would they want to know about their friend?   
  
Pulling out the Sentinel-safe cleaning supplies Sandburg stockpiled under the sink, he tried to  
remember where he'd put the mop when he'd decided to live like a monk. Unable to remember  
and not willing to go dig through the basement just yet, he grabbed a sponge and a bucket and  
began to scrub at stains and dirt only he could see, mind still working furiously.   
  
When did Blair even have the time to meet friends in between papers, classes, grading, stakeouts,  
Jim's paperwork, his diss, Shaman research, the volunteer work Blair insisted on doing, and the  
Sentinel stuff? Not to mention cleaning, and cooking, and taking care of his car, writing articles,  
submitting grants, heading committees, office hours, anthropological displays he helped with, the  
new computer system he'd set up at the P.D. . . .  
  
The list was staggering, Ellison realized with a blink. When did Sandburg even find time to sleep?  
  
*No wonder he wanted to spend a few days away from Cascade, you idiot! He hasn't had a real  
vacation without some part of his enormous life intruding since . . . since . . . well NEVER!*  
  
Blair was more than entitled to whatever rest he could garner before coming back home.  
  
*Ah! But he didn't say he was coming HOME did he? He said Cascade. He said he'd come  
back to Cascade.*  
  
Ellison ignored that annoying voice in the back of his head, the one that took delight in replaying  
those words he'd thrown at his Guide about betrayal and trust in the bullpen, the voice that filled  
his head with the image of a shocked Blair as he opened the door to find a gun in his face.  
  
(Oh, hey, I was down at the station doing some work and I met this woman . . ."  
  
"Look Chief, why don't you spare me the details?")  
  
Blair HAD tried to tell Jim, to tell him about Alex, he realized grimly, guiltily.   
  
His memory tortured him with the confusion on that face when he'd thrown the other man out of  
the loft, just packed up his stuff, one week over.  
  
("I just need you gone.")  
  
And then there was the memory of the absence of that-that *sound,* that most important,  
necessary sound. A sound he didn't even know he'd been listening to since day one of their  
meeting in that cold room at the hospital: the breath in those lungs, the familiar cadence of that  
heart.  
  
It was missing even now.  
  
("Come on, Chief! Can I get a little space here?! ")  
  
*But that is because he's in San Diego, you moron! He's not dead. He's coming back home, to  
the loft.*  
  
*To Cascade.*  
  
*HOME! Even if I have to drag him back and staple him to the floor to make him stay.*  
  
Thus decided, Jim got off of his hands and knees and began dragging furniture back up from the  
basement.  
  
***  
  
It had taken him over eight hours to drag all the furniture and belongings back up from the  
basement and into the loft. He still hadn't found the mop though, and was becoming silently  
ticked off. He refused to go out and buy a new one. It was a waste of money. The mop would  
appear if he did that, he just knew it. He would outsmart the mop. He'd *pretend* to buy a new  
one and then he'd lure the old one out of hiding. There was something to be said for dogged  
determination. But most of the loft was intact, mop discluded. Thank God the elevator was  
working. He still had some things to put up and put away, but the bare minimum was present.  
  
But not the bare necessities.  
  
Because he still couldn't find the damn mop.  
  
Because Blair wasn't here.  
  
Because Blair would know where it was, or have some sort of bizarre method of retracing his  
steps and finding it.  
  
Blair wasn't home.  
  
Blair was in *San Diego.*  
  
Digging the slip of paper out of his pocket, he noted with a pang that it was a receipt for the last  
grocery run Blair had done. Looking at the time and date he realized that it had been Blair who  
had taken the time to stock the refrigerator one last time, even though it wasn't his refrigerator  
any more, even though he'd just been told to drag his belonging out of what used to be his home.   
  
Pushing the thought aside, Jim grabbed the phone and punched the numbers in and waited  
anxiously, listening to the ringing on the other end.  
  
On the fifth ring it was answered.  
  
"Hello?"   
  
Blair's voice suddenly filled the room, making it lighter, making it easier somehow to breathe, to  
exist.  
  
"It's Jim."  
  
"I figured." There was a smile in the tone. "What's up?"  
  
Jim flopped down on the couch and tried to think of a plausible explanation for his call at-- he  
looked at his watch --two in the morning, one that hopefully didn't sound possessive, psychotic,  
belligerent, and rude. "I uh . . . "  
  
Sandburg saved him. "You got everything moved back into the loft or did you just sent up the  
phone, man?"  
  
"No, I got stuff," he replied, relieved by the generality, the *safeness* of the topic. "I got stuff.   
Its a pain in the ass moving it all back though."  
  
"Gives you a chance to clean," Blair teased absently.  
  
Jim found himself relaxing. The kid knew him so well.  
  
("Whoa, whoa, wait, wait. I know who I am, okay? I don't need you or anyone else to help me to  
define that. Is that clear?")  
  
Jim shifted uncomfortably, wanting the echoing words, the hateful accusations Blair had just  
stood there and took, to leave. *Maybe safe isn't possible anymore.* Bravely he broached what  
he hoped was the least sensitive issue. "What- uh what do you want me to do about your stuff?"  
  
There was a long pause on the line, then: "Jim, none of my stuff is there."  
  
The detective glanced around at the empty walls and shelves. Barren. Cold. Empty. "Yeah," he  
agreed hoarsely. "I kind of noticed that."  
  
"Lack of clutter and general chaos unnerving?" Blair asked wryly. "See, I told you you'd get used  
to the masks." A light chuckle floated to his ear.  
  
Jim smiled; maybe all their problems could so easily be overcome. Maybe talking wasn't so bad  
after all. Maybe Mark was right; just *be* there and talk to his partner. Blair didn't seem to want  
to push, to analyze. He should be thankful.  
  
"You okay Chief?" he asked suddenly.  
  
"Sure, sure," Sandburg said easily, waving the whole thing off; homelessness, abandonment,  
death, rebirth . . . "A couple days to get my head together and I'm heading back to Cascade."  
  
Cascade. Not HOME not THE LOFT not the P.D. or RAINIER. Just *Cascade.*   
  
Jim sat up, gripping the received so tightly that the plastic casing cracked.   
  
"Well, it's late," he said, forcing the light tone to his voice, not wanting to ruin this first call, this  
first olive branch by shouting. "You should be sleeping. Are you taking your meds?"  
  
"Yes mom," the student drawled.  
  
"Well . . . goodnight Chief."  
  
He heard Sandburg sigh, his voice dropping low, almost a whisper, a benediction, a blessing from  
his Shaman. "Good night Jim."  
  
click  
  
***  
  
"Jim? Could I have a word?"   
  
The detective halted mid-motion in sitting down. When Simon was polite and soft spoken there  
could only be hell to pay. He looked around the bullpen wondering if anyone knew what was up.   
No help there. Megan glared at him from behind her computer. She was seriously ticked off  
about how he'd handled Sandburg in recent days and she'd obviously shared some of the tale with  
Rafe, H., and Joel because they ignored him too. And Rhonda, Rhonda looked like she might just  
leap over her desk and attack him with a stapler when he'd said good morning to her.  
  
Sighing, Jim decided to go bravely to his fate.  
  
"Close the door behind you," was Simon's curt command from where he stood by the window, his  
back to the detective.  
  
Deciding offense was in fact a good defense, Jim opened the conversation. "What's this all about  
Captain?"  
  
Bank's turned, scowling and threw a file at Ellison. "Your new partner detective."  
  
Peering into the file and seeing the name Jim snapped it shut quickly. "I have a partner Simon.   
Connor and I don't--"  
  
"No, you don't have a partner. Remember?" Banks said coldly.  
  
Clenching his jaw, Jim had to refrain from growling at his superior. "Blair is coming back in a few  
days sir."  
  
"I know that," Simon snapped, taking his seat. "This is what you wanted. I asked you if you  
could do the Sentinel thing on your own when you cut the kid loose. You said yes. His 90 day  
pass was up a long time ago Jim. What with . . . what happened," Simon looked away for a  
moment, "at the University, the Commissioner wanted his pass pulled."  
  
"And you're just going to sit there and pull his observer credentials because of some stupid time  
limit? Blame what happened on *him?!*" Ellison asked angrily.  
  
Bank's stood, barely controlled fury in his eyes. "This is what YOU wanted detective! You  
wanted the kid on board, you needed him, he was here. You don't need him, I can't fight to let  
him stay. Don't you fucking dare lay this on me! I'm doing what you wanted!"  
  
Jim's mouth tightened into a thin line. He held his Captain's gaze for a moment before looking  
away, guiltily. The past was coming back to do more than haunt him, it was coming back to bite  
him on the ass. And he deserved it.  
  
Ellison took a deep breath, and then another, fighting to find the right words. Finally: "I don't  
want this, sir" he said softly. "I don't want this."  
  
Simon regarded him silently before nodding slowly. "When Sandburg returns bring him in and  
we'll see about getting him an updated observer pass."  
  
"Thank you sir." Jim closed his eyes and sighed. He could breath again.  
  
"Until then you ride with Connor." At the beginning of Ellison's protest, he raised a hand and cut  
the Sentinel off. "I don't want to hear it Ellison. Try to keep from killing each other, okay?"  
  
The joke fell flat, too much death hovered around them already.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
***  
  
Jim shrugged off his coat, hanging it onto the lonely pegs that lined the wall next to the front  
door. He threw his keys into the basket and ran his hands through his hair and over his face.   
Murder investigations were always taxing-- so many people to call, so many leads to follow. The  
victim had been a private investigator so that meant all his clients had to be taken into account  
too. That and Megan was now his partner. Megan Conner who had figured out that Jim wasn't  
psychic, but a Sentinel.  
  
He pulled out a beer from the fridge and drank half of it in one breath before going over to sit on  
the couch.  
  
All he wanted to do was relax, unwind, breathe . . .  
  
First though, he needed to call his partner, let him know what happened. He didn't want Blair to  
come back and find things in a bigger mess than when he left.  
  
"Hello?"   
  
Jim didn't even bother to identify himself. "Went back to work today. The guys were asking for  
you."  
  
*Okay, that's good Ellison. Lead up to it. Don't be threatening or angry about the whole thing  
with Megan. He did warn you about using your senses around her. Don't push. It's not his  
damn fault, remember?*  
  
"Tell 'em hi for me, kay?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Pausing for a moment, Jim took a deep breath and began speaking about what really bothered  
him. Blair deserved to know. "They, uh . . . the Commissioner pulled your observer pass," he  
said hesitantly, wondering if he should elaborate on his own part in trying to get rid of Sandburg,   
and cowardly deciding against it.   
  
Silence greeted that announcement, silence that frightened the detective so much he rushed to fill  
it with words, which was more Sandburg's gig than his, but this was *too important, dammit!*   
"But it's just a mistake, because of the- of the . . ." Jim hadn't a clue as to how to finish *that*  
sentence. He pressed on regardless. "I-I can--"  
  
Blair interrupted and once again Jim thanked God that Blair knew what to say; his words always  
made sense, his voice created order out of chaos, he loved Blair for that. "Jim, don't go yelling at  
the Commissioner or Simon. It wasn't about dying, remember?"  
  
For a moment, a split second of bliss, Jim had thought that Blair wouldn't put it together, wouldn't  
figure out the *why* behind the loss of his pass, but then Sandburg was much smarter than even  
Jim, the benefit of his genius, gave him credit for.  
  
The bullpen, his words to Blair, loud enough for everyone to hear. Telling Simon that this was  
what he wanted, to cut Blair loose.  
  
Blair remembered, and realized that Jim had pulled one more rug out from under him that hateful,  
fateful day.   
  
("Do you think you can handle this Sentinel thing on your own?"  
  
"Yes.")  
  
No.  
  
Simon had taken him at his word.  
  
Blair had expected it to happen.  
  
Jim wondered again just what sort of friend he had become. Where did he get off saying things  
about trust and betrayal?  
  
He felt the strong urge to throw up.  
  
"I--I-- When you come back we can get that fixed," Jim said desperately, trying not to let the  
emotion spill into his voice but failing miserably. "You'll have to fill out the paperwork again, in  
triplicate, Chief," he added trying to make a joke out of it, make a joke about the whole mess.  
  
("You know, Chief, if you want to meet nurses, there are easier ways.")  
  
("I couldn't let you die. You owe your last month's rent.")  
  
Jokes. Jokes had gotten him into this cross-country phone tag game.   
  
("Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take that trip with you.")  
  
And now he thought jokes would get him out of it.  
  
He was such an idiot.  
  
But Blair, bless his soul, understood. Blair always understood even when he shouldn't. Blair was  
his friend and in Sandburg's book you take a friend's weirdness and you dealt with it, even  
tasteless jokes after rising from the dead.   
  
"Paperwork," Blair said with a hoarse laugh. "The bane of my existence." The words descended  
into coughing, wracking spasms that tore from his partner's chest and into Jim's, who ached in  
sympathy hearing that horrible sound.  
  
"Sandburg? Chief?" he barked over the phone. *C'mon kid, answer me.* "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah I-I'm fine," Blair gasped, taking in huge draughts of air.  
  
"You don't sound okay," Jim said in a small voice. *Shit, why does he have to be so far away? I  
can't DO anything from here.* "Just sit down, lean forward, breathe deeply." He stretched out  
his hearing and heard the rustle of cloth on skin as Blair obeyed. "That's it. In and out. In and  
out. Have you been eating, taking those pills on time?" he demanded in the middle of his quiet  
litany, unable to help himself. He heard the sound of Sandburg nodding and breathed easier  
himself. "Okay, that's good then. Just breathe." *Oh God kid, just keep breathing, don't you  
ever stop.*  
  
After several long minutes a weak voice spoke. "Sorry."  
  
"You apologize for the dumbest things Sandburg," Jim scolded, wondering just what exactly Blair  
was apologizing for, wondering why his voice kept wanting to crack and break, why his eyes  
burned.  
  
*Must be the cleaning supplies.*  
  
But that was bullshit because Blair had bought them, and Blair always, always made sure  
everything was safe for him.  
  
Always.  
  
"I know," Blair whispered in response. Jim could practically see and feel the warm smile that  
accompanied those words: the Sandburg Special, used only on very rare occasions and to be  
treasured. "g'night," Blair whispered.  
  
"Night Chief," Jim whispered back.  
  
click  
  
Sitting down on the couch, he grabbed his now room temperature beer, mulling over the  
conversation, trying to slow his own pounding heart after hearing Blair cough like that.   
  
*He didn't say yes,* he realized at last. *He didn't say he wanted to come back and work with  
you. Be your partner.*  
  
("I got to have a partner I can trust.")  
  
That's you Chief. It's only ever been you.  
  
("Usually he had a partner along, someone to watch his back."  
  
"You mean like you?"  
  
"Oh yeah, beautiful, great idea, I'd love to!")  
  
I've just got to tell you that, Chief. Then things'll be back the way they were supposed to be.  
  
Just got to tell Sandburg.  
  
***  
  
The phone picked up, Sandburg talking straight out of the gate, sounding distant as if he were  
using a speaker phone. "Hey Jim."  
  
Jim waved the open letter he had in his hand as if Sandburg could see it and him, as he stood by  
the phone, not even his coat off. "I got a letter from Rainier."  
  
"Oh?" Blair said absently, a sound other than Blair on the line, sort a metallic rasping that Jim  
couldn't place. He pushed the thought aside and waved the letter futilely again.  
  
"Well, actually it was addressed to me in leu of Major Crimes." Ellison looked down at the  
horrible words and wondered how worse life could get for Sandburg before he permanently threw  
in the towel "They . . . uh . . . they . . ." *God, how the hell am I to tell him this?*  
  
"Fired me," Blair piped up cheerfully, the rasping sound continuing. "Yep, I know. I refused to  
take back this petition I sent before I headed down to Mexico. One of my students, Brad  
Ventriss, was cheating. Turned in this other guy's term paper with all his old notes on it. I mean  
how stupid does he think I am, huh? His dad's soo rich so it doesn't matter. They sicced a lawyer  
on me. Fucking politics. So, how's work?"  
  
Jim pulled his jaw up from the floor and dropped the letter. Blair was taking this all in stride  
which was eerie, but his Guide had asked him a question and he answered promptly, regardless of  
confusion.  
  
"Joel's working on a murder case, I'm sort of helping. One Dennis Chung, he's a P.I.," he   
continued, warming to the subject, to the possibility of hearing Blair's take on the case, just like  
old times. "We've been checking clients." Jim hesitated. He couldn't just drop this. *I mean this  
was Sandburg's whole life here!* "Do you want me to go yell at the Chancellor or something?   
Get you're job back?" he offered tentatively.  
  
"Nah." The rasping sound grew harsher, harder, an odd contrast to the unconcerned tone. Jim  
reached out to listen to his Guide's heartbeat and found it elevated, but whether it was from the  
drugs, or the strain, or the news he didn't know. "I'm sort of disillusioned with the whole Rainier  
philosophy right now," Blair continued, "That, and Chancellor Edwards and the Chair of the  
department both hate me."  
  
  
That noise was really starting to irritate him. He could almost place it . . ."Sandburg?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What the hell is that noise? Are you-you cutting your hair?"  
  
Blair hesitated with the scissors in one hand, a chunk of his hair in the other. He looked around  
his place on the floor where he sat cross-legged facing the phone, realizing he'd carpeted the floor  
with his curls. "Just a trim," he said keeping his voice steady as he brought the scissors up again.   
"Chlorine is so not good for it."  
  
"Oh." Jim sounded a bit stressed. He didn't like talking about the fountain, but then neither did  
he, so Blair figured they were about even. "Um . . . what about you dissertation?"  
  
snip "What about it?"  
  
"I mean," Jim's voice continued from the tiny phone speaker, concerned, worried, and trying not  
to be demanding. It was kind of funny to listen to. "Will you be able to turn it in?"  
  
Blair nodded even though he knew that Jim couldn't see him. *Oh well, maybe he'll hear me.*   
"Uh-huh. E-mailed it a couple of days ago, sent the hardcover version in." He pulled down on a  
curl until it straightened almost to the tip of his nose and then savagely chopped it off. "They sent  
me back a defense time. I'll be back in Cascade by then."  
  
There was a long pause. "You *sent* it in?"  
  
Jim really sounded stressed now; for a moment Sandburg hesitated in his destruction to wonder  
why. "Yeees," he said slowly.  
  
The speaker exploded. Sandburg could almost picture Jim leaping to his feet, pacing frantically.   
If he'd been there physically, Blair knew he'd be up against a wall at this point. "WHAT THE  
FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR DEAL? YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SHOW ANYONE   
ANYTHING UNLESS I READ IT FIRST!"  
  
Oh, so that was it. *Fear-based responses. He doesn't trust you Sandburg, you idiot.* Blair  
sighed tiredly. It never got any better, not even dying had helped, it seemed. *So much for my  
big surprise.*   
  
"Chill, man," he soothed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice at hearing once again  
irrefutable proof of what his Sentinel really thought of him. *No anger, you're to blame,  
remember?* "Deal's off. I'm not writing about you."  
  
"You-you aren't?" Jim's voice asked in bewilderment.  
  
"No. Changed my mind after the whole Brackett mess. I figured I write it and you end up in a  
bunker in Nevada with electrodes everywhere," Blair waved his hands to illustrate the point even  
though Jim was two states away and even Sentinel sight wasn't that good. "You so do not need  
that headache man."  
  
"So . . . you're doing it on closed societies?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
Jim sputtered for a moment and then flopped back down on the couch and thought back to that  
night shift he'd pulled that Sandburg had hung around for. "Wh-what about that chapter I read?   
Didn't you turn that in? Why did you write that for?"  
  
"You didn't like it, I didn't turn it in. I wrote it for me, for you, us," Blair added hastily, the first  
sign of emotion in his voice since he'd cursed Rainier. "Whatever." Jim could just imagine those  
waving hands as his Guide pushed the whole issue aside. "I wrote it 'cause all the work you did; it  
was important. I wasn't just testing you for the hell of it, you know. You're not a lab rat. It was  
never like that. Or at least it wasn't supposed to be, but I guess maybe you thought so. I wanted  
to type it up and give it to you, sort of--- sort of as a, like . . a graduation present." Here Blair's  
voice got soft, sort of wistful, the shearing sound halting for a moment. It pulled at Jim, at the  
Sentinel he was, guilt flooding him. "Sort of a thank you, good work, like Sentinel graduation."   
Sandburg affected a pompous, booming tone of voice. "Congratulations, you are now a fully in  
control, certified, protector of the tribe and Watchman, oh, and here's the instruction manual that  
goes with you. Sort of a addendum to Burton's work," he added in his usual voice. "But, hey I  
can delete it if you want."  
  
"No," Jim said sharply, touched (though he'd never admit it aloud) by yet another selfless gesture  
by Blair on his Sentinel's behalf. Hadn't Blair offered to destroy his notes for him, for their  
friendship? Jim felt lower than slime. He'd had the opportunity to prove his trust in his Guide and  
failed again, miserably. *Fuck!* "No, Chief. That's okay."  
  
"So you're cool with all of this?" Sandburg asked tentatively.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I guess . . I guess I have to be," he said quietly. *But what does this mean for us?   
For ME?* It sounded selfish, but his heart demanded an answer, the Sentinel demanded an  
answer. *Was Blair coming back only to leave? They'd be no need for the pass if the  
dissertation was done.* Congratulations on you diss Chief," he offered at last, feeling sort of  
shell shocked.  
  
"Thanks Jim." The snipping sound resumed again.  
  
"Jeez Sandburg, how long does it take to trim hair?" Ellison asked, trying to lighten the mood.  
  
"Longer than yours obviously," a teasing voice replied, more than willing to go along with his  
Sentinel's sudden change of topic, forgetting and forgiving the earlier outburst. "Some of us are   
not blessed with receding hairlines--"  
  
"Watch it Chief, I know where you live," Jim growled.  
  
"Not anymore Jim," Sandburg laughed, and Jim froze. That was one joke he didn't want to hear.   
"Good night."  
  
He forced his vocal cords to work. "Good night Chief."  
  
click  
  
The detective stared at the phone in his hands and wondered quietly just what the hell he was to  
do now.  
  
Jim Ellison, Sentinel, Detective, former Special Forces Army Ranger, and all around screw up  
when it came to friendships (he'd decided it was an even better title than Sentinel of the Great  
City; he didn't think he deserved that one) opened the french doors that lead to the small room  
that used to be Blair's. Turning around once in the barren little space, eyes haunted, mind lost  
down paths too dark to tell he failed to hear the noise coming from the fire escape.  
  
By the time he registered the dart that had struck the back of his neck, he was already swallowed  
by darkness.  
  
Miles away, Blair Sandburg stood and went into the bathroom to check the results of his hair  
trimming, wondering just how bad his sudden, out of control hacking had been.  
  
Flipping on the lights and staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror, Blair could only think of just  
how short a distance he'd come since the last time he'd been at this cabin and life had fallen apart  
around him.  
  
end  
  
to be continued??? only Feedback will tell a_sayyar2118@hotmail.com Be gentle. It's my first  
Sentinel story. 


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